


A Certain Aesthetic

by firstblush



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: F/F, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 18:27:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1176412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstblush/pseuds/firstblush
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke holds a dinner party.  Only two people show up. More pre-slash than actual pairings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Certain Aesthetic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Scuffin_MacGuffin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scuffin_MacGuffin/gifts).



> This was written for my sweetheart, Scuffin. It's not quite Sebastian/Anders but the intent was there.

Hawke has invited all her friends to dinner, or at least, this is what she tells Anders. He can't help but feel a little suspicious, however, when he shows up to find only Sebastian Vael there in front of the fire place with a drink (nothing so exciting as wine or even ale in his hand, just a plain, hot cup of roasted barley tea), and stretched out by his feet is Hawke's snoring mabari hound. None of this would be exactly alarming if it wasn't for the fact that Anders is also decidedly late. Too late to be anything but the very last guest to arrive, which has happened not out of any deliberate planning, just the incidental outcome of running a free clinic in Darktown; people show up as they please, even if one is halfway out the door, looking moderately clean for the first time in a week from a fresh rinse of cold water and hasty scrub of soap, wearing clothes that while faded and frayed along the edges are actually for once absent of stains.

So when he finally does arrive almost an hour past the specified time, looking a little haggard with hair that has come loose from its restraining ties in the occasional tuft of blond, and a coat that is freshly saturated with sweat in few unflattering places, he isn't exactly in the mood to put up with people whose conversational range centers primarily around spouting Chantry doctrine. People who probably wouldn't comprehend the meaning of hard work, or being kept up til the midnight skies of a late evening pale upon the approach of sunrise, or sleeping on beds that are made of anything but fresh sheets and feather pillows. People, who because of all of those reasons, can afford to look bright-eyed and energetic and perfectly polished in ridiculous white and gold armor.

When at last Hawke and Isabela enter the room to greet him, and Hawke asks him if he'd like something to drink, he doesn't even really acknowledge her question. Just looks up with a tired glance and says, "Please tell me the others are still coming," though he already is sure he knows the answer. His fingers have pressed to his forehead, which is starting to ache from either the sheer frustration of the day or the restless part of him that is Justice, who is not speaking to him in any kind of distinguishable voice but in the persistent feeling of time being wasted, of things needing to be done elsewhere, of images and feelings that slip in uninvited into his thoughts and compel him to make up some excuse to leave.

Excuses do come, but they are not his. Instead, Hawke is the one listing them, from work related emergencies to unexpected personal matters. One for each absent member, except Fenris, of whom Hawke says very simply just declined the invitation.

"But I'm glad you came," Hawke adds, which Anders can roughly translate by the slight twist around the edges of her mouth and a certain lilt in her tone to mean: "and no, I'm not letting you worm your way out of this." Arguments could be made, and weariness has not rendered him without the tooth and claw for a fight, but ultimately, he knows that his night will probably be much shorter by just having dinner, than by going five rounds of verbal sparring with Hawke and finding that neither of them are any closer to resolution. Besides, he could use a proper meal. He can't really remember the last time he had one. There was a quarter loaf of stale bread that he stuffed down sometime between editing a manifesto and fixing a broken arm, and several cups of too-strong tea that had been left steeping until the liquid was nearly ink black and horrendously bitter, but his stomach has sort of gotten used to the idea of chewing absently on itself from being so often left empty.

 _There are more important things,_ his brain states emphatically, or maybe it is Justice, but in reality he can hardly really tell the difference and perhaps that's because there isn't one. Food, however, is a necessity. He knows this being a healer, because when the sick come for something to soothe their aches and fevers, or injuries are patched with clean linens and a touch of magic, sleep and a well-rounded meal are what he prescribes next for a steady recovery. It's important to keep the strength up, and really, the last thing he wants is to start passing out in front of templars because he hasn't had enough to eat.

At least, Isabela is here. Anders has some hope that maybe this night will be enjoyable with her around. She might work enough innuendo into every conversation that Sebastian will avidly avoid participation and not feel the need to stick in his unwanted opinion. But this hope is short lived because Hawke is dragging her lover into the kitchen, with a look that Anders knows from his days before Justice and the cause, one that promises fluttery kisses down jawlines and crooks of necks, and playfully slapped hands as tasks are interrupted by arms wrapped around waistlines. It feels like a lifetime since Anders has experienced anything like that, riding high on carefree affection, and the memories are so distant and faded he can't be entirely sure they are his - except of course they are his because those were his hands twisting around cloth and pulling someone close. ("You have to be more careful, Anders." "I don't care. Let them catch us.")

Isabela and Hawke disappear behind a hallway, their laughter muted by a closing door. It is no surprise that even with the tardiness of Anders' arrival, dinner has not yet been served. He is left alone to wait with Sebastian and the dog, and Anders has little confidence either will have anything interesting to say. But it isn’t until Anders finds a copy of his manifesto in one of Hawke’s books, and out of habit begins revising it (because his mind is seldom free of the subject. There are always new points and counterpoints he has come up with and feels compels to jot down before he forgets) that any actual exchange of words comes about. Perhaps it is the first opportunity Sebastian has found to make some affectation of small talk, or perhaps it is just that Sebastian cannot help but sticking his nose in someone else’s business. Either way, Anders does not welcome it when Sebastian says in that annoying manner he has of asking questions where all the emphasis somehow falls to make it sound all the more presumptuous.

"You don't really expect anyone to read that, do you?"

"Maybe not everyone is as closed-minded as you,” Anders says with a pointed smile. “Maybe they're not as willfully blind to whatever goes on outside their doorstep because they actually bother to try to think for themselves once in a while. Did you ever think about that?"

Sebastian doesn't take the bait. In fact, he is aggravatingly calm as he gestures toward the document in Anders’ hands.

"I only meant to draw attention to the legibility of your hand-writing. It’s not," Sebastian gives a thoughtful pause, "what one might describe as an 'easy read'. Especially considering the number of corrections you've made." Anders does his best not to look where Sebastian has indicated, but even without checking, he is well aware that his penmanship lacks a certain aesthetic. He might blame it on a cheaply-made quill, and there may even be some truth to that, enough to excuse the occasional blots of pooled ink. But it would have been less believable in cases where complete sentences have been crossed out, and rewrites squeezed into the narrow space left above, in places where his letters run together or have adopted an ambiguous state of melding between two characters.

"Does it really matter what it looks like? It's the message that's important,” Anders replies.

"To you, perhaps. But your readers will hardly have a chance to appreciate it if they cannot make it out in the first place," Sebastian says with a laugh, a sound that is out of place and unwelcome in any conversation shared between them. Anders thins his mouth in displeasure upon hearing it, but Sebastian either does not care or is too caught up on his own thoughts as he continues on unfaltering. "Nobles in particular put an unfortunate amount of significance on presentation. Only consider their obsession with seasonal fashions. Wear a fitted doublet when it's meant to be padded that year and you may find yourself with your dance card empty and no seat at the dining table."

Anders arches a skeptical eyebrow, not sure that Sebastian hasn’t made another one of his ill-attempts at drawing parallels between things that have little relevance to each other. “I've spent countless hours on these, and you’re saying, no one can bother to read them because they're not 'pretty enough.' That's ridiculous."

"No, that's nobility," Sebastian corrects, and perhaps there Sebastian has a point. “Here. Look. I can show you the difference if you’d like.”

Anders would not particularly like, but apparently Sebastian isn’t actually interested in what he wants. The man has taken the quill and manifesto straight from his hands and with a careful nudge of fingers placed thoughtlessly on the small of Anders back, guides him over to Hawke’s desk. There he selects a clean piece of parchment, smoothing it out with one hand against the table in front of them, the edges still stubbornly curling at the corners as he bends forward, head bowed and hand raised. Anders is left to stand behind him, watching over his shoulder as the quill dips once into the inkwell, tip coated in glossy black before it is glides across paper. There is an artistry in the way it is held, balanced between long fingers, the rotation of Sebastian's wrist in fluid strokes, the occasional tilting lift of an arm, the clean, decisive strike of a straight line. Speed coupled with precision. The letters he draws are not that of simple, everyday scrawl, but elegant script intended for official documents, the calligraphy learnt and reserved to scribes and priests who spend hours of their day copying and re-copying important manuscripts. Sebastian’s hand bringing new life to Anders’ words in this altered form.

"’The oppression of mages stems from the fears of men, not the will of the Maker.’" This is the line that Sebastian has only just reproduced, and he reads it aloud, in the soft, rolling accent distinctive to his native city.

"It's true, you know," Anders says, because even if he can't make out Sebastian's expression, even if all he can see from where he is positioned is the folds of Sebastian's hood and that sparse span of skin left uncovered between the fringe of white fur and the curl of ruddy brown locks flipped out at the nape of Sebastian's neck, he's pretty certain he can read the skepticism in that pause, the inevitable judgment.

"That isn't..." Sebastian shifts his arm, the quill no longer dangling precariously over the unblemished sheet where stray drops of ink might splatter. He turns just so, enough to catch Anders' gaze with his own, his eyebrows still knit together in some unspoken contemplation over blue eyes blinking wide. "It's a good argument."

"Don't sound so surprised." Anders isn't about to be taken in by a back-handed compliment. He hasn't missed that hint of incredulity, as subtle as it may be. "I'm not some out of control madman, you know. I'm not just spouting nonsense. The plight of mages is real, and I’ll do whatever I must to bring it the attention it deserves."

Sebastian averts his gaze while Anders holds his steady. _Yes, that's right. I know what you think of me. But you don't get to tell me what I am._ Some part of him revels in Sebastian's discomfort, because Sebastian is really no different from those nobles he has just been criticizing. Quick to judge, and never looking deeper if something isn’t presented with the right packaging. Sebastian falls quiet. Perhaps for the first time, Anders thinks with a certain spiteful delight, Sebastian has been forced to look at himself clearly and does not like what he sees. Maybe now he’ll stop meddling in other people’s lives when he can barely manage his own. The room is filled with only the sound of fire, its pop and crack of burning wood, and the softer scrape of a quill tip drawn against the smooth of paper.

Sebastian turns around, holding out the finished copy. Standing at full height, face-to-face, there really needs to be more distance between them, but Sebastian doesn’t appear to notice and Anders is too stubborn to take a step back, watching only with a narrowed stare down the slant of his nose.

"Your penmanship may be a challenge to decipher but it’s worth reading,” Sebastian says with a kindly smile. “The composition is eloquent, and thought provoking. I would not mind taking a look at another someday.”

That is the last thing Anders expects to hear. In fact, Sebastian announcing plans to run off and elope with the Grand Cleric would have likely registered higher on Anders list of believability. Because even his closest friends have seldom expressed sincere interest in reading his manifestos, but here is Sebastian Vael, looking at him with eyes that may well be the very definition of sincerity, and Anders, who prides himself on being able to get the last word, discovers he is a loss for a reply. Fortunately he is saved by a pair of voices from the doorway.

"Oh look, Hawke,” Isabela coos with exaggerated sweetness, “they've gotten all cozy when they thought no one was watching. That’s adorable!"

"Too much to drink tonight, Isabela? You’re not seeing straight," scoffs Anders, slowly working his way back to his usually clever tongue. By this time, Sebastian has managed to use a rogue’s speed and stealth to take him halfway across the room, the parchment cradled against the curve of fingers that for all their skill have not escaped the occasional streak of black ink at their tips. Hawke’s eyes fix accusingly upon it.

"Sebastian! Did you really have to help him write out another one of these? I already have enough copies of Anders' Manifesto to wallpaper my house."

"Don't be too hard on him, sweetling,” Isabela laughs. “Sebastian was just trying to show Anders what he could do with his quill, and might I say it looks very impressive."


End file.
